I'm not quite sure where this one's going but I'm sure that we'll get there. Pah! Come on! You should be used to this by now. I'm often not sure of where I'm coming from or going to, but we make it work somehow. Now, I feel compelled to tell you what it is I mean by making it work somehow. Life is a tricky messy thing, but it all works out in the end. There'll be a conclusion. There's always a conclusion. Even if the conclusion isn't what you hoped it might be, take some comfort in the fact that things do in fact conclude, always.

Back when I was love struck with love lost, I started writing something...

Every now and then we get with people that aren't the forever people. That means that you won't be together forever and ever, and that one day, your feelings of profound selfless love will turn into feelings of I love you but I'd sooner see you headless. Yes! Such is life. Nothing lasts forever. The loving somborri of today is the emotional terrorist of tomorrow, and the emotional terrorist of tomorrow is the, I swear it was the devil that possessed me to consider of next tomorrow. Like I said before, such is life. Shit happens. Everything ends, and nothing is good in the world. Yes I'm bitter. No, I don't care. Anyway, because my heart has been the victim of much sufferhead and torture...

Naturally I didn't finish it. Why on earth would I want to finish a thing like that? It's vaguely amusing but, I think I'm done with that. There are so any tales I could tell of

Thank heaven! I couldn't bear it. So I cast it aside like a burnt out cigarette and returned to business as usual. But, lately I've been thinking about the forever people and who they might be and that's when pack came up. The forever people are pack: your ride or dies, your ever dependables, the people that show up for you when all's said and done and the people that you show up for too. They're the people that don't understand you and are somehow fine with it. We're people. We're not always supposed to be understood you know? So now, more so than ever, I'm focusing on the way of the pack.

It is pack to run off on your own for a while on some adventure or the other. Pack won't judge, they'll let you go.

It is pack to not always be pack. Packs are living breathing coteries. You may leave one and find another, but you'll always remember that for a time you were brothers in battle.

Pack remembers the best of pack. Always. And even if there are hard times, pack remembers how those hard times led to something better.

Pack bleeds for pack.

Happy Days,
Afam

In other news, I'm contemplating writing less about me. Or writing about me as I did 3 years ago. All of the good, none of the bad. Life affirming, never wallowing.

This one's a little bit of a nothing post because try as I might I cannot settle on a theme that suits my mood. What's my mood at the moment you wonder? It's a quiet smile and a wicked glint in my eyes; it's a dead pan face with vicious truths and strong convictions and; it's a soft anger that's borne of constant disrespect.

I don't want to dwell on the disrespect part of things, but over the weekend a writer friend of mine came to my house for the get together I threw for my 24th and shat on me in public. He literally pressed my nose and called me bastard in front of my brother and his good friend, Iapetus. Because I write and I'm so passionate about it, I try not to talk about it unless I'm asked explicitly because I can be a little bit overbearing with it. The struggle rises to the surface and overwhelms me. I can't stem the flow of stories I've held back because I can't find an appropriate deposit for them in my life. You'll be treated to the, "Err mar gerrrd nobody understands me" whine and that will be closely followed by the "following your dreams is so hard" wail. Sometimes I fail to keep from offloading my emotional baggage on complete strangers but I try very hard indeed. I try so hard that I'm proud of myself in spite of my failures. It's progress.

So this writer turns to my brother, Gbaddy and says..

Enter writer friend, Iapetus, Gbaddy and me, Afam, the competitive.

Writer Friend: Afam and I used to compete back in the day.

Gbaddy's really only feigning interest. He really couldn't care less about the competition or lack there of, but Gbaddy's nothing if not polite, so he puts on his most interested face and joins the conversation.

Gbaddy: You did?

Me: Yes we did. I defeated him.

And I did. I churn out content at a pace he cannot match, I have a greater following and he's been on hiatus for six months or so. Anyway you look at it, he's been buried. I don't like thinking about it like this because his race isn't mine.

Writer Friend: Well all he does is insult middle aged women about what they wear, while I write introspective and interesting poetry and articles laced with my unique brand of dark humour.

Silence...

His words hurt. They were an icy dagger in my breast. At that point I just wanted him to leave. You don't come into my house and chat shit like that. It's just rude. As he left he tried to apologise, or smooth the troubled waters but I wasn't having any of it. I delivered the most cruel line when he broached the subject again. I said, "By June I would have B for Blown and you'll be exactly where you are now, nowhere."  

And that's all I guess. I can't say that I will have blown by June but I hope so. The thing that's awesome is even if I don't I'll be okay. Dream chasing comes with a satisfaction that's unmatched by anything. I don't even know that this is my dream. The bit I like best about all of this, is that it's something that's mine and mine alone. Nobody gave it to me. Nobody can take it from me. Papa Afam didn't make any magical internship granting calls. Anyway you look at it, it's all me. There are mistakes, and there are bad calls but I can't help but feel a little bit proud of it.

And that's all for tonight I guess.

Happy Days,
Afam

While I really, really like talking about other things, my most favourite thing to talk about is me. I can talk about me until I die. I'm so self absorbed it's ridiculous. In my head, I'm constantly having conversations with myself. "Afam, what do you think about this?" or "How much do we hate this guy right now?" or "If we were to ram the toyota into the side of the bridge, how many pieces of us do you think there'd be" and other such morbid things. So, I'll take a break from talking about other things, and other people and talk about myself. And you're going to read it because you really really really care about me, and after you've read it, you're going to share it, and rave about it to everyone you know, and this time tomorrow, I'll be immensely popular, and the writing jobs will roll in, and there'll be money in the bank, and I'll finally get to take my editors to lunch (Mena, Lia, Mama Afam, A-zone, and Gbaddy I'm talking about you). 

The before's on the left, the after's on the right. Things are tighter.

That's the full sized image and stuff. :-). I'm pleased. I still don't like that my right pec is bigger than my left pec from playing squash with my right hand, but you can't have everything.

The shirt's from Jack Wills, I quite like it. It's floral and it's blue. The black t's from Levi, the jeans are from diesel, and the boat shoes are Timberland ones. It's a fairly chilled look.This was how I dressed when I went to uni. There's something vaguely nostalgic about it. My dog, Captain Reginald was the photographer, during this photo shoot. He does alright.

When it got hot, I tied the shirt around my waist like a tourist. I quite like tying things around my waist. It makes me feel like I haven't got a care in the world. Captain Reginald got tired of staying behind the camera. He's so vain. If there's a photo being taken, he can't stand if he isn't in it. He's serving ass in this shot.

Captain Reginald wasn't content with staying in the background here. I can't deal with that dog. I really can't. If I ever filled out an online dating profile, the title would be must love dog. I spend far too much time agonising over him. I worry about what he's eating, whether he's putting on weight or not, if he's obese, if he's getting enough exercise, and when he's going to learn that doing some things will hurt him. There was this one time, he jumped out of my car while it was moving. I very nearly died. Anyway, here, I'm wearing a t-shirt I've had for 6 years, that says Fabulous disaster. It's a little odd that Papa Afam got me a t-shirt that has fabulous and sparkles on it. If he had known that the t-shirt was at least 2 parts gay, I'm sure he'd have passed. But who cares? I love it still. #nonewclothes

I'm obviously not entirely comfortable putting her face on here. I'll see how I feel about it in the morning. Having said that I like this over edited version, my eyelashes look pretty and she looks good without a nose and a top lip.